The Might of Men
by jwcalifo
Summary: The mad king Aerys is nearing his final days and men are plotting left and right to end up on the right side of history. Lord Robert declares himself king, but others are making their own plans. Meanwhile, horrific events such as the death of Rickard Stark make Aerys loyalists such as Ser Barristan the Bold wonder how they can get through this life with their honor intact.
1. Prologue

**The Might of Men**

 **A Song of Ice and Fire fanfiction**

 **by Jim Willows**

 **Prologue**

Let it hereupon be known that, I, Robert, of House Baratheon, in conjunction with All of the Major Houses of the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms, do declare Aerys II of House Targaryen, who currently holds the title King Regent and Protector of the Realm, to be presently and permanently Unfit to Rule and Protect the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms.

Whereupon, I, Robert, of House Baratheon, in conjunction with All of the Major Houses of the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms, do declare that Aerys II of House Targaryen and his Family, being Fundamentally Unsound and Unfit to Rule and Protect the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms, must needs immediately vacate the Iron Throne and all its Rights and Privileges and the Kingdom of Westeros proper, or face risk of execution for crimes against the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms.

Whereupon, I, Robert, of House Baratheon, in conjunction with All of the Major Houses of the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereupon assume the title, role and responsibilities of King Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, out of Necessity for the Glory and Continuation of the Realm and All its People.

Robert sat for a moment, pondering the parchment in his hand, then signed it. He turned it over and scribbled something on the back before rolling it and sealing it for the first time with the sigil of the newly crowned stag of House Baratheon. "Gods, Jon, are we doing the right thing here?" He looked up at his mentor and friend with a searching look in his eyes.

Jon Arryn noticed the look. _Searching, but by no means lost_ , he thought to himself. He responded. "Aerys is a danger to the entire existence of the realm. Half of his people are plotting against him and the other half are scared to death of him. Most of his council fled when he raised that barbaric Dothraki-Quarthi bastard to the Kingsguard two months after showing up, claiming long lost Targaryen descent. The man killed Ser Petyr Rowan for daring to challenge him on his story, and Aerys rewarded him for it. I had known Petyr since he was but a lad, jousting a quintain in the Vale. This is only the latest alarming thing. Robert, if we don't act and get the Targaryens out of power, the realm will suffer. They conquered us with fire, but the realm will go down in flames if we don't act now. This must happen, or there is no way that we will survive the next winter. When Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna, it was the last straw, not only for you but for all of us. The Targaryens have taken everything from this kingdom, our love, our loyalties, the very soul of what brings us all together as Westerosi and as men. You question your resolve only because of your personal feelings for her, but to the realm she is but a token of everything that Aerys has failed us in. This must be done, Robert, and you are the best man to do it."

Robert stood, his confidence restored. As always, he knew Jon was right, and after a moment's lapse, he saw that again. The realm was suffering, and the Mad King's reign of terror must come to an end, or there would be nothing left. Once again, the dragons would have succeeded in torching all of Westeros, only this time the dragons were only human. He could not sit back and watch the kingdom, his home, crumble before him. All that remained of the dragons were stories and curses to instill fear and demand loyalty, and he was certainly not going to let fear destroy his home. Robert turned to Jon Arryn, and handed him the sealed parchment. "This one is for Aerys himself," he told him.

"I have just the person to arrange delivery, I think," Jon said. "Ser Jaime has not been the same since Aerys declared his father a traitor and ordered his execution. I'm fairly certain he'd be quite pleased to hand him this himself if it were possible."

Robert eyed him suspiciously. They'd had this conversation before, and he didn't want to start it again now, but he couldn't help but worry about this delicate Lannister alliance. _What is it really based on?_ he wondered. "Any other man I'd say that makes good sense, but I don't know about a Lannister. They probably have their own plans cooked up. Are you sure you can trust him, Jon?"

Jon's eyes were resolute with certainty as he spoke. "Oh yes, Robert. I am well aware that the Lannisters have plans of their own. A fool would believe he was privy to more than a fraction of what goes on in Lord Tywin's mind. However, if there's anything we know about Tywin, it's that he's always focused on the greatest profit. And in this case, the interests of the realm align with his own. I'm certain of it. And I thank you, Robert, for trusting me to keep the nature of this alliance secret from you for now, until the time is right to reveal it."

Robert looked about him, uneasy. Most of the lords in company seemed to share his unease, but none of them were want to question Jon Arryn either. They all understood that there were some plans, arranged on such a grand scale and of such utmost import, that they must remain secret. Robert himself was horrible at keeping secrets, and he hated doing it. He felt it was beneath him to censor himself to anyone. If he was a just and noble lord, respectful of his subjects and peers, there shouldn't be any need to. But he understood that the world did not work the way he would like it to, and if ever there was a man he trusted to have such a secret, it was Jon Arryn. _I must not get into the habit of trusting people out of respect for familiarity,_ he thought to himself. He wished Ned was here with him.

Jon looked down. On the back side of the parchment, opposite the legal document contained on it, Robert had written a personal message, unsigned but clearly Robert's voice. _The dragons are dead, and so shall you be, Aerys you mad fool. You deserve all that is coming to you._ After he read it, he looked back up at Robert.

The two men met each other's gaze and both noticed a fire burning in the others' eyes. Robert felt the fire awake in his heart and he pounded his fist on the heavy oaken table and bellowed, "For Westeros!" "For Westeros!" everyone around him cheered. He grabbed the flagon of wine from the table, took a huge gulp, sat back in his chair, and looked up at his friend and mentor. "This is happening," he said, for the second time. The first time he'd said it, it was more a question than a statement. This time, he not only believed it, he felt it.


	2. Ser Barristan the Bold (1)

**Ser Barristan the Bold**

Ser Barristan was fuming as he walked back into his solar. He could still smell the burning green flesh. It burned his eyes, nose and throat, and felt like acid dripping down into his stomach. He had walked out of the room without the king's leave for the first time ever in his life of service. The last thing he saw was Aerys looking at him with a detached crazed look in his eyes. The feeling left behind in his soul by that look caused his heart to pound. He was pacing, but he had to stop to catch his breath. He reached down and grabbed the hilt of his sword, loosing it from its scabbard. He knew he had to go. The look in Aerys's eyes had been one of a man defeated but not willing to secede. _Such men are very dangerous._

He looked around at the small suite in the Red Keep that had been his life for thirty years. _Will this be the last time I see it?_ Once he got out of King's Landing and surrendered to Lord Robert's men on the Trident, there would be no coming back. _Unless Robert wins…_ he thought to himself, … _and then, I'll have to trust that Robert will be willing to accept my surrender and offer of fealty_. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think such a thing in his life.

He thought of the Stark boy, Brandon, all of twenty years at most. _How did this happen?_ he found himself thinking.He thought of the ravens that had arrived from Storm's End, and then the ones that came later from other castles in and around the North and the Vale and the riverlands. The messages had been identical, most of them, but with signatures added. He knew that because they'd been left all about the Red Keep, sometimes in the trash, sometimes left strewn about as casually as if they contained the ingredients to a pigeon pie. Others were unique, but sent a similar message: _Aerys you have failed us. Your time in this world is over._ The only thing more disturbing than the fact that most of Westeros had declared war on the Targaryens was the fact that King Aerys seemed to think it was of no real consequence at all.

And now Rickard Stark was dead, and most likely his eldest son as well. There was every reason to believe that the king's life was in more danger now than it had ever been. He should be taking action, helping plan for possible attacks. Yet he felt nothing. His honor and sense of duty died the moment he saw Rickard Stark go up in green flames, his son strangling himself trying to get to him. Stark's other son was heading down the Kingsroad, possibly as close as Harrenhal by now. This should be information that was being used to plan defenses, and yet at the moment he felt as if the only true safety was outside of these walls, out there with the criminals.

 _Criminals…_ He frowned at that word. What did that word even mean anymore? It seemed as if everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had been declared a criminal at some time or another in the last few years. His head swam. He reached again to the hilt of his sword, then jerked his hand away as he saw the green smoke rising in his mind, saw the flesh boiling and searing, both inside and out at the same time. _Criminals…_

Ser Barristan Selmy had had enough. His honor as a knight would not allow him to remain here in service to this king. He was sure of that now. Yet any action to that effect would mean his death, swift and certain. He'd spent the last eighteen months trying discreetly, so as not to go above his station, to help His Grace understand the folly of the heavy handed approach he was using toward not only his lower servants, but all those who would be his allies in the Realm. He had started slow, knowing that as a Targaryen His Grace lacked some basic understandings of humanity because of his unusually privileged upbringing. He thought of the sellsword that had been called to court who was still reeling from the death of his young son that the king had ordered in retribution for allegations of speaking ill of the young Prince Viserys. His Grace had openly mocked the idea that the sellsword might be so bold as to try to attack him while he sat the Iron Throne. The man had a spear through his eye before he got within a few feet of the king, but the experience had rattled Aerys greatly. _Not to mention what happened at Duskendale, of course._ Ser Barristan had thought the incident with the sellsword would be a good moment to help His Grace understand that his true power lied in the loyalty of his people, but to no effect. Aerys had begun to retreat into isolation instead, holding court less often in public and more and more in his private chambers. Any suggestion that limiting court to private consults might cause concern for the allies of the realm or the smallfolk was met with accusations of treason. There were no men brave enough, or dumb enough, to take issue with it. At least, none left…

Ser Barristan knew that suppressing such things did not make them go away, only turned them into something much more nefarious: anger and resentment. _The seeds of retribution are sowed with every dismissive comment._ Where had he heard that before? Did it matter? Did anything matter now? He thought of Rhaegar, out there on the Trident, defending the honor of his father even though Selmy knew that Rhaegar no longer believed in the man he was bound by family to defend. _Rhaegar,_ he whispered to himself, _Rhaegar is our only hope for the future of this kingdom. His sweet, gentle but intelligent nature will save us all._

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door and a voice, thick with foreign accent. "Ser Barristan. His Grace is here, requesting audience with you."

Ser Barristan froze, his stomach knotted and twisted. The man speaking was Kahaerys. He was a distant relative of the Targaryens, long removed from the current King Aerys and his family. Kahaerys had shown up one day on a ship out of Essos and been raised up to the Kingsguard shortly after, despite a great deal of controversy. It was said Kahaerys's father was a merchant prince of Quarth and his mother a Quarthan bed slave who had been kidnapped as a child from a roaming khalasar. The claim of Targaryen blood came from his father, of whom it was said he descended from a cousin of Aegon the Conqueror that had stayed behind in Essos when Aegon and his dragons came west to conquer Westeros. The Targaryen surname had been lost due to marriage about two hundred years ago but because of the success the Targaryen name had enjoyed over the centuries the first names had been honored and maintained. It was a fact that Kahaerys was proud to acknowledge. "Rastahaerys. Pudaerys. Muchaserys. These are all great Targaryen men that lived outside of Westeros under other family names. You've never heard of them which means there are more great things that Targaryens have achieved that you've never even heard of," he was fond of saying in his broken version of the Common Tongue when he was in his cups. As all the other men around him were slowly beginning to pull away from the king, Kahaerys was becoming the king's most trusted servant. _Perhaps it was his whore mother's blood that made him seem so comfortable pledging loyalty to the madman that Aerys had become. Or perhaps Kahaerys is a fire demon sent forth to Aerys from the ghosts of Old Valyria to destroy us all._ Ser Barristan did not know, but neither would have surprised him much at this point.

Ser Barristan walked slowly to the door and spoke, "His Grace is here?"  
"Yes, Ser Barristan, I am here." He recognized his king's voice. Hesitating for a brief moment to check his weapons belt, he twisted the lock and opened the door.

Aerys had a look in his eyes that Barristan did not expect. It was a solemn look. He walked into the room and took a seat near the window. "Ser Barristan I am sorry that we all had to see that. I did not want it to come to that, you must understand." The king stared deep into his eyes for a moment before continuing. "The Starks have been loyal friends of the throne for over two hundred years, but..." He paused, looking down and away from Ser Barristan, then stood and stared directly into the knight's eyes. "Disobedience cannot go unpunished. When the earliest Targaryens of Valyria first conquered the dragons, it took utmost discipline to overpower and ultimately tame the beasts." He paused briefly, then continued. "When my more recent ancestor Aegon the Conqueror came across the narrow sea, he relied on the absolute loyalty of his men to accomplish his goal. The dragons helped ensure that loyalty, and it is that way that I must rule the kingdom." He looked up again. "You understand that, don't you?"

Barristan looked at him and said nothing. He knew he should say something, or risk angering the most dangerous man in Westeros even as he was trying to reach out to him. Such a slight would not go unpunished. Rather than say something he would regret, he bowed his head and simply said "I understand your perspective, your Grace."

Aerys regarded him for several moments in silence, then spoke. "Ser Barristan, you have been one of my family's most valued servants for thirty years. My father himself raised you up when I was but a child. Do you remember when I went through that phase of calling you Barry?" He paused a moment but did not wait for a response. "Ser Barristan, there is something important that I must needs ask of you. My son has many men with him on the Trident, but I fear they will not be enough. Please, take some of the men of the City Watch and go north to help protect my son. The blood of the dragon is in him, and because of that he will not surrender alive. You will have to take the Gold Road west, then go north and up the other side of the God's Eye. Duskendale, Rosby and Stokeworth have declared for Robert, so the way up the Kingroad is not safe, and the usurper already has men marching down it to take us here."

The king began pacing now, back and forth across Selmy's solar, then continued. "There might be Lannister men on the Gold Road. Avoid them at all costs. They call Tywin Lannister a lion, but he is no lion. A lion will show his true colors to your face. Tywin Lannister is no more than a snake in the grass, pretending to be a harmless plant while lying in wait to strike when his prey least suspects it. His men cannot be trusted, and I am not sending you with enough men to fight them and still help my son on the Trident." He stopped pacing now, closing his eyes and lowering his head for so long that Selmy began to think the king had fallen asleep in a fit of madness. Then he raised his head again and opened his eyes. The fire reflected off the king's purple eyes in flames that seemed to get bigger as he spoke. "I fear Robert may have enough to overpower him there. I cannot lose my son and heir. If he is lost, I may as well throw myself into the wildfire. The realm will be lost forever without the Targaryens to oversee them." He paused again before directing his fiery gaze directly into Selmy's eyes once more. The red flames caught the purple of the iris and made his eyes appear a crimson red, dark as blood. "I will see the whole city burn before I let that happen, do you understand me?" His gaze was so intense now that Selmy, one of the bravest and most noble knights of the Kingsguard, nearly lost his knees.

He recovered his footing and looked at his king in utter disbelief. He felt flushed for a moment. With that look, and those words, all hope and faith in this king drained out of him. _Leave the king's side and march north to command the king's troops?_ _What is happening? Our friends are not our friends?_ In that moment, Ser Barristan knew that he was going to die without honor for this Targaryen king. He tried to hold his king's gaze without letting his anger show but found he could not, and Ser Barristan had to look away. Then he thought of Rhaegar. _Rhaegar will save us all, that sweet gentle soul. He is the answer to our salvation._

Slowly but surely, Ser Barristan Selmy raised his eyes and returned his gaze to his king and said "It will be done, Your Grace."


	3. The Young Magister

**The Young Magister**

Illyrio Mopatis knew he would come to regret this meeting. His business ventures had been fruitful enough that he'd been able to avoid having to meet with anyone from the Iron Bank of Braavos in years – even through the last winter. Yet, his success was the very reason he found himself here today. For he was not here to discuss usual matters such as terms of loan repayment, but matters of state of the utmost import. He was here to discuss the displacement of a king.

The young magister gulped slightly as he took his seat in the chambers of the offices of the Grand Chancellor of the Iron Bank of Braavos. The room was so finely furnished, it put even his own estate to shame. All around the walls were gilded tapestries of silk so fine it looked as if you could put your hand right through the fabric. There were three chandeliers, each comprised of well over a hundred small candles. The tables were carved in elegant designs, with each leg marvelously crafted in the shape of an animal of enchantment for men from all lands; on one a dragon, another a harpy, on another an animal that could have been a bear or a direwolf depending on how you looked at it, and lastly an elephant. The table was so finely carved that he could scarce believe it when a serving girl set a glass of wine down on it. He would have assumed it were meant only to look, and not for casual use.

It was only then that he noticed that the chandelier in the middle of the room had but one candle burning, a dark glass candle. Magister Illyrio stared absently at it for several seconds. He knew what it meant, but how could it be?

A voice came from the curtains behind the desk at the head of the room, as two figures emerged. "I know that you know what that candle means, my noble magister." It was the shorter and younger of the two. His head was bald and he walked with his hands in his sleeves, as if something was hidden up there. Despite his humble appearance, his eyes were fierce with excitement.

The other, much older gentleman Illyrio recognized as the Chancellor of the Iron Bank, Peruvius Malm. He stood, out of respect, as soon as he recognized him, but the Chancellor motioned for him to sit as he took his own seat behind the elegantly carved desk at the head of the room. He did not say anything. Illyrio had heard that was his way. When it came to the Iron Bank, there was no need for words. Words could not pay back a debt, make a debtor whole again. It was the chancellor's job to make sure all transactions went smoothly, and words were not nearly as effective as the Chancellor's iron stare, or the damage that could be done with the stroke of his pen.

But Magister Illyrio had no debts to pay, and he was not afraid, so he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He said, "I have heard what it means, but the candle has not burned for hundreds of years. Why would it burn now?"

The younger one responded. "Our world is about to be tested, according to the prophecies. The glass candle burns when the dead walk. The dead walk when life dies. Life dies when men lose hope." The stranger paused, walking slowly around to the side of the desk. "Men lose hope when they see good, honest men suffer for no reason. When evil men use their power to control others and rule with fear, men lose hope. When stupid men are in control, and others have to work harder just to feed their families, men lose hope. When the weakest of us – cripples, women and children – are forced to become monsters in order to survive, men lose hope." The stranger gave him an inquisitive look. "When men lose hope, the dead begin to walk, and the glass candles begin to burn. When the candles burn, winter comes and does not end." The younger one started to walk around the desk now, toward him, as he spoke. "There must be hope in the world or else the candles will continue to burn forever, and all will be consumed. The winter that never ends, my dear magister. Or so the prophecies suggest." _And a silver serpent will reign over them._ Illyrio remembered that child's tale. The stranger was still giving him that same inquisitive look, as if wondering if he'd be swayed by the power of stories and trickery with glass candles.

He wasn't, though. The young magister was impressed, but only with the dramatic flair of the bald stranger and his stories, on the backdrop of one of the most elegant rooms Illyrio had ever seen, than with the supposed danger they were facing. He was about to stand and applaud mockingly when the Chancellor spoke. "Magister Illyrio, grave days and nights are upon us. This candle has never burned during my lifetime. I believe it is the mad king Aerys across the Narrow Sea that causes it to burn now. He will bring evil down upon us all." He paused, rubbing his lips together, perhaps wetting them, then continued. "I wish to see this candle go out before my time in this office is done, and for that it is important that we all understand what is at stake." Illyrio understood the power of the look now. The Chancellor's grey-silver eyes felt as if they were piercing deep into Illyrio's soul.

He remained seated. He understood that the candle was a bad sign, but he did not see how it affected him. Aerys was king in the west. The dead walk in the west, far across the Narrow Sea. Still, he asked, "Ok gentlemen, you have my attention. What does this all have to do with us?"

The Chancellor sat back in his chair and looked at the stranger. A small smile crept to the corner of his lips, as though he'd been waiting for the question. He responded. "Magister Illyrio, I understand your hesitation to feel any sort of involvement in this, as it is well known that the dead walk in the lands of perpetual winter across the Narrow Sea. But I assure you, these problems will reach you. Aerys is destroying his kingdom, and he will drag the rest of the world down with it. He raises taxes until men cannot pay, then punishes them with death and even higher taxes. He burns noble men and boys with wildfire. His land cannot maintain itself economically in such chaos. Trade will suffer." He stopped talking then and regarded the magister.

Illyrio was beginning to see how this affected him.

The stranger continued. "The prophecies say that the world will be thrown into chaos when the blind silver serpent controls us. Because of the timing of the candles and the latest news from Westeros, we believe that Aerys is that blind silver serpent." He paused.

The Chancellor, noticing that talk of serpents was not having the effect they'd hoped, spoke again. "The Iron Throne has not paid its debts in almost two years. It is the first time in over a thousand years that the Targaryens have failed to make good. With war on the horizon, we don't expect to see any of that money until after the next winter, and we'll be forced to seize cargos from Westeros until we can recover our losses, which will be years." He paused. Illyrio was listening now. "Magister, a shipper such as yourself would stand to lose forty percent of your business by the time the next winter comes, and sixty or seventy when it is over." He was staring intently at him. Illyrio knew he was right. "The Iron Bank of Braavos has been around for thousands of years. It has survived great kings and terrible kings. Almost ninety percent of the gold that pays for all the shipping to and from Westeros flows through this bank. It thrives when men want to expand their farms, hire shipbuilders and build castles." His stare was intense. Illyrio gulped again. "The wisdom of the Iron Bank exceeds all known cultures from Westeros to beyond the shadowlands. We here are concerned about this on a level that we've never known before. Something must be done to help stabilize the western world." Illyrio knew what was coming next. "Thankfully we have a variety of tools at our disposal. In this case, that means supporting a smooth regime change abroad."

"Why do you need me for any of this?" Illyrio realized he was sitting on the edge of his seat. He forced himself to sit back, casually reach out and take a sip of his wine.

The stranger picked up. "The way things are, it looks as though the Targaryens will not remain in power much longer. However, Lord Robert Baratheon, the contender for the Iron Throne, is not someone we can rely on to build trust in his people, which is what we need to ensure a comfortable future for all. Robert will run the kingdom no better than Aerys, and will try to cut outside trade through heavy taxation. He will not be friendly to us, should he have ultimate power in the Seven Kingdoms. We fear that Lord Robert does not have what is needed to put out the glass candles. Unfortunately, we may have no choice about this, as the situation stands."

"So what is the preferred outcome?"

"The preferred outcome is for Aerys to perish and for his son Rhaegar to take his place, eventually." Illyrio noticed that last seemed a bit difficult for the stranger.

"Eventually?" Illyrio's eyebrow pricked up a bit. "That sounds… complicated."

"As all good things are, my dear magister. Rhaegar Targaryen has what it takes to be a great ruler, a friend to the people, both noble and smallfolk alike, and the wealthy merchant class as well. But near three hundred years of absolute power has corrupted him, as it does all who grow up in that castle. We will install Lord Robert as Lord Protector of the Realm temporarily. Rhaegar and his family will leave Westeros and come here where they will be safe and Rhaegar can begin his instruction. He must needs learn what it means to be human before he takes the throne. Pride makes all Targaryens blind to the err of their ways and the discontent they sow, but stepping away from that pride will help him see what he needs to see. There can be no more behaviors that destabilize the health of the realm and its people. No more incestuous marriages that are cursed by the Gods and keep other noble blood away, no more mysterious visitors in the night suddenly raised up to Kingsguard and granted lands that are entitled to other men, no more use of wildfire anywhere, for any reason. We have a septon here that believes that he can help Rhaegar. He was once a rich man, lavishing in gold and fine foods and women. He believes he can help him understand how power corrupts, but how a pure heart can overcome this corruption and do great things. The sparrow has great knowledge of these things, and he is a very wise man, although he is still new to the faith. Only once Rhaegar has proven that he will not let his own dragons destroy him, as they have Aerys, will he return and be raised to the Iron Throne. Lord Robert will, of course, profit handsomely from all of this, and the realm will enjoy an unbroken legacy of succession, with the necessary interventions, of course."

The magister stared. "And you think he will agree to this?"

The stranger looked away as he responded. "Sadly, no. Rhaegar is a beautiful soul and I have no doubt that he is capable of learning to be a great king, someday." He looked back at Illyrio. "However, he has been a Targaryen so long that he does not know how to set his pride down. I fear very much that he will not willingly set his sword down while breath still flows through his lips. The blood of the dragon is in him, and as such, he will die for his honor as a Targaryen, even though he must know that his family's honor is already tarnished." He looked back at Illyrio. His eyes were noticeably solemn now. He continued, "I would like that not to happen, if possible, but it is very unlikely."

Illyrio sat in silence for a moment. Finally, he asked again, "So what do you want from me?"

"We will make sure that there is only one of two outcomes. One is the ideal solution. Rhaegar surrenders himself, his wife, children, and siblings to us and agrees to our demands, we house them safely in Pentos, and we help make sure that Robert rises to Lord Protector of the realm, but no higher. Rhaegar will take over, with the full support of the Iron Bank of Braavos and its many powerful noble Westerosi friends, once he has spent time with the sparrow and been cured of his evil and dangerous ways." He paused. His tone lowered a bit. "The other, more likely scenario, is that Rhaegar and Aerys will die. When that happens, we want Rhaegar's wife Elia of Dorne, their children, and Rhaegar's siblings safely housed in Pentos. Robert will take the throne, and there is nothing we can do but hope for the best. At the very least we'll be able to expect peace which means the continuation of trade and the beginning of repayment of some of our loans. If Robert proves to be a stronger business leader than we think, the children will still be valuable, one way or another. The woman can be ransomed back to Dorne. If Robert is as unreliable as we fear, then we will have several trueborn Targaryens to challenge his rule someday."

Illyrio understood now. "And when you say in Pentos, you mean with me?"

"Indeed." The stranger had relaxed a bit, leaning slightly on the edge of the desk.

Illyrio was silent. He was well aware of the risks that the mad king had brought to his industry. _He is throwing his kingdom and his economy into such chaos, it is awakening ancient evils._ The thought struck him. He did not believe in such fantasy and nonsense. Did he? He looked to the Chancellor. He was sitting back in his chair, also comfortably. Illyrio took another sip of wine. Finally, Illyrio spoke. "What will be my compensation for such a risky and long-term commitment, I wonder?"

The Chancellor sat up and rubbed his chin. "Our many friends will supply you with foods and wines, delicacies from all ends of the world. There will be ample supply for you to feed yourself and your guests, as well as to add several hundred barrels to your ships for export. Of course, the shipments will continue even when your guests move to another host for a time, which they will. We will supply you with more exact numbers in due time, but I assure you the value of these goods will be great. And you will not lack for fine foods or wines ever again, my friend."

Illyrio smiled a bit. He was not fat, but he did enjoy a fine meal. This was all very intriguing. After a time, he responded. "Dear gentle sers, this is all very interesting, and concerning as well. I must needs check with some of my dear councilors and friends, to confirm some of these troublesome things you say." He looked at the Chancellor, his eyes a bit wide. The Chancellor gave him a slight nod though, so he continued. "Should all of this turn out to be true, I will gladly offer my services and will gladly receive your offer, in the name of the greatness of the Free Cities." He hesitated. "Might I take some numbers with me to help me decide?"

The Chancellor looked at the stranger and nodded, who then spoke. "Of course, my dear magister. You'll be provided with a thorough list of suppliers and the offerings each is willing to contribute to the cause. I know you'll find there are some find quality merchants with some rare and expensive goods to put on the table. Many will be very gracious for your support."

Illyrio nodded. Sensing there was no more to be said, he stood. The Chancellor stood as well, and offered him the Old Valyrian formal bow of grace. It was an impressive touch. Only once before had anyone offered Illyrio the bow, on the day of his graduation to magister. Illyrio returned the bow. The Chancellor nearly let out a hint of a smile, it seemed to Illyrio. _Does he already know what my answer is going to be?_ Illyrio wondered to himself.

The stranger escorted him away and through the large marble archway on the side of the room, out into a hallway. Feeling as though some of the formality was done, Illyrio found himself asking the stranger. "My friend, I noticed that you seem to care much for this Targaryen prince? Why is that? It seems easier if he were gone, like the rest of them."

The stranger was silent. His eyes betrayed something personal. He sat on the edge of the elegantly carved desk. "Rhaegar is an exceptional soul," he responded. "Since you're going to so personal, Magister Illyrio, I might as well tell you who I am. My name is Varys. I hail from Myr, for what it's worth, although if I've done my job well you'll never meet someone there who knows me. I serve those who serve people."

Illyrio stared, unblinking. Was he supposed to be impressed?

Varys continued. "Within the realm of all men, women and children are both good and bad souls. King Aerys is a bad soul. Many who align with him are bad souls." He paused, looking away again. "Rhaegar Targaryen is a good soul." He continued to look away. His voice was thick with emotion. "I first met Rhaegar when I was but a young child, having only recently learned about the evils in the hearts of men. I was a scared young boy, and Prince Rhaegar was kind to me. He offered to play his harp for our troupe in the city when I was a child. We had lost our musician to a horrible plague, and the show was in danger of falling apart. The young prince, all of ten years at most, came forward and offered to play the show. He'd seen it several times, and knew all the notes." Varys wiped a tear away. "He played thrice with us until his father found out about it. The mad king must have believed it beneath them to play with a simple mummer's troupe from Essos. One day Rhaegar played for us, the next day three knights appeared and destroyed our stage and props and told us to leave the city immediately." Varys paused again. "On our way out of town, I saw Rhaegar by the side of the road. His eyes were raw with grief. He waved to me and offered the best smile that I think he could, considering he knew that he was responsible for our raw fortune at the hands of his father. I will always remember that smile. I think I needed that smile. I took that smile and used it to inspire me to keep going." He stopped walking. They'd reached the front door of the bank at the top of the great staircase down to the ground. Varys continued. "When I returned to King's Landing later, as a councilor of sorts." He paused very briefly. "Rhaegar didn't remember me, but I remembered him. I saw what that mad man had done to that poor beautiful soul that Rhaegar the child had been. The young man I came to know later was a shell of what he once was." A second tear appeared. He ignored it. "Except when he played his harp. Then, you could see the beautiful soul in him, the ancient Targaryen beauty that was spoken of far and wide, yet seen by so few." Varys looked around him, then back at Illyrio again. "My dear magister, we do thank you so very much for your time. Here is the information that we promised you. As we said, you'll find these numbers to be quite ample, should you be true to your obligations." He handed him a rolled hempen parchment, sealed with the stamp of the Iron Bank of Braavos. Varys continued. "I do think that things will be happening rather fast now. Robert and Rhaegar will meet soon on the Trident. Rhaegar has received our terms. He must release all of his hostages and surrender himself and his family to Dragonstone. If he does not, he will die along with Aerys, and Robert will usurp the throne. We will send word days ahead of us when we depart Dragonstone, assuming there are some that can get away." His tone betrayed a slight sadness that his eyes and mouth did not. Still, Illyrio could sense the sincerity. "And now, my friend, I must bid you ado."

There was only one more thing to say. "For the glory of the Free Cities." He spoke the formal greeting of Old Valyria.

Varys responded. "For the glory of us all." Illyrio turned and made his way down the stairs, reading the parchment as he walked. Arbor golds and Ghiscari sausages. He let out a big smile as he walked his large, but still agile, frame down the many steps of Iron Bank. _This should be a very fruitful endeavor._


	4. The Dragon Prince

**The Dragon Prince**

He felt the dragon rising inside of him. _Insolent fools,_ he thought to himself, then immediately felt a strong sense of shame. Deep down, he knew why they looked at him now with such contempt. They had spent all of their lives serving his father and his family only to be rewarded with accusations and threats. And now he was asking them to give all in the name of the king that they had grown to scorn and fear. He stole a cautious glance over at Ser Stafford Lannister. The man was clearly stewing, even as he sat in quiet contemplation at the war council table. He would need to send Lannister west to meet Tully's men at the Red Fork. _He cannot be trusted anywhere near my van._ Besides, with Tywin Lannister beginning to show signs of open rebellion, the west was all but lost to them, it seemed.

Rhaegar paused in mid-thought. Ser Stafford Lannister had been his groomsman in his wedding to Elia of Dorne. They had trained together in the yard. Staff had been in attendance the first time Rhaegar played for the folks at the Red River Inn. Once the best of mates, Ser Stafford now stood as the most likely person to betray him and his father. _How did it come to this?_ he asked himself.

"Give me a moment, sers, please," Rhaegar muttered as he turned and stepped back from the council table. He thought about his father and the war that they were facing as he took a seat on a large boulder facing the Green Fork, just out of earshot of the war council. He felt a sudden longing to throw down his sword, grab his harp and ride as fast and as far as he could. _North, to Lyanna,_ he knew. _But then where? Nowhere. There was nowhere to go._ He was a Targaryen no matter where he went. People would recognize him anywhere, even across the Narrow Sea. As much as he wanted to leave his father and his kingdom and the marriage, take his true love and flee the madness that had become, he could no more do so than a fish could flee the seas, rivers and lakes that it was born, lived and died in. _In the great moon's turn of life, I am but a small piece of the Crone's grand design. And this design does not prove the test of time._

Rhaegar looked back to the council table. Lords Randyl Tarly, Paxter Redwyne and Mace Tyrell were arguing. Others sat in quiet reflection. None were looking in his direction.

He reached into his sleeves and pulled out two of his most prized possessions. One was a small, leather bound book of blank hempen paper. It was no larger than his palm and no thicker than his little finger, but the paper inside was so thin that the book contained over a hundred pages on which we he could document his thoughts and ideas. From the other sleeve he pulled something even more valuable, a pen of his own creation crafted from an Old Valyrian design. The pen had a sharp tip but a hollow core, and the ink was contained inside it. A spring, custom crafted by a clockmaker from the city, was inserted inside the hollow pen core, and pressed just the right amount of ink needed to write to the tip with just a shake. The ink itself was fast drying as well.

Rhaegar found the custom crafted pen and paper were perfect for documenting his thoughts during this whole mad war. He wanted to take everything down: every murder, every betrayal, every child who became orphaned because of the madness of this war. He wanted every widow's tears and every lost son's life documented. He would never again let his father, or any man, rule the kingdom in such a way that men were afraid to live honestly and openly and freely. That had to include telling the dragons when they've become too bloodthirsty, he knew.

His father had turned the kingdom into a place of fear and stunted intellect, through his madness and fear and scandal. Rhaegar intended to heal the kingdom, and he intended to do everything he could to make sure the kingdom would never be ruled by fear again. Keeping this journal, documenting all of the pain that his father had caused, was the best way he knew to do that at this point. He hoped the Crone would someday help guide him on a path where these words could be more than just his own ideas, a foundation for life that every man, woman and child could believe in. But for now, all he could do was write down the facts, and his thoughts, and hope that he lived long enough to turn some of them into reality.

 _Men are not meant to follow blindly,_ he wrote down. It was something he'd decided for himself long ago, when he learned about the story of his ancestor Maegor the Cruel. An old proverb popped into his head: _A donkey works the hardest when it can see the carrot but not the stick. However, when a donkey chases a carrot, at the end the carrot is real, and the donkey will be fed._ He did not write that down, however. He knew he could not trust that these men would ever get their carrots. He could not even guarantee they would keep their lives, even if they won the war. Not with his father in power. Rhaegar closed the book and looked out over the Green Fork, brooding on this for a moment.

He wondered where Ser Barristan was with the rest of his father's army. He had hoped to hold out until they'd reached word of their arrived, to organize a flank of Robert's men from two sides at once. The raven had arrived half a fortnight ago with word of their impending arrival. He'd hoped that one of their riders would have showed up by now to announce that Ser Barristan and his father's five hundred Gold Cloaks were formed up on the south west end of the Trident, ready to strike. That rider had not yet arrived, though, and it seemed they were out of time.

Rhaegar thought of Lyanna. He looked out over the Green Fork toward the North. He wanted to run, away from here, away from Westeros and its lords and its allegiances. He wanted to go east, where he was known in name but not in face. He would go by a different name, playing the harp for noble princes and adventurers with the woman he loved. No politics to decide his life for him. Only love, only passion.

He thought of Elia. He had learned so much from her, from her Dornish ways, about love, about passion, about following one's heart. The irony is that without her he would never have come to realize how much he loved Lyanna…

He stopped himself in mid-thought. There would be time for this later. Right now the dragon needed to come out, but not at his own men. He slid the paper and pen back into his sleeves and walked back to the head of the council table. "Lannister." Rhaegar felt the dragon's breath searing the back of his throat inside of him, but he kept his voice level and firm. "I need you to go west and meet Tully's men. Your brother should be coming east from Casterly by now and we expect you can hit Tully's men from both sides as they march east." Rhaegar stopped, holding Ser Stafford's gaze for a moment.

Lannister gave a small nod. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Thank you Ser Stafford. You may take your leave of me." Rhaegar's voice remained firm. He knew that was how a leader spoke, firm and confident. _But also understanding,_ he knew. The books never seemed to teach him that. "Ser Stafford," he called out, as Lannister was beginning to walk away.

Lannister turned. "Your Grace?" he asked, a genuine look of puzzlement on his face.

"Ser Stafford, I thank you for your allegiance to my father." The steadiness in his voice betrayed him a bit. He could hear it in his voice, but he continued. "I know you, all of you…" he raised his hands toward all of them. "All of you have suffered for the realm. You've suffered for my father." His voice had completely lost its edge. He paused. He didn't know what to say, yet he knew he had to keep going. He started pacing. _Blood of the dragon,_ he whispered to himself. _A dragon is strong. A strong man can admit when he is wrong._ "Many of you have suffered because of my father." He felt the dragon shrink a bit inside of him. Still he kept the gaze of the men before him. "And that is why…" he trailed off, scanning all eyes at the table. "That is why I intend to make sure that the kingdom will never again suffer the whims of one man such as my father again." He stopped pacing and stood still.

The men before him stood gaping. None spoke. All eyes were on him. He felt the intensity of that stare. He'd said so much just now, and yet so little.

Rhaegar was about to speak again when a group of riders approached. One of them donned the crowned three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen. Another carried a smaller banner. It was small and queer, compared to the large colorful velvet banner of Targaryen. This one was brown wool, with two small blue birds on it on. The man carrying it was lightly armored, and his head was covered with a hooded cloak. When Rhaegar noticed them, he excused himself again and took his leave, making with the strangers back toward the Green Fork.

When they'd reached the same boulder Rhaegar sat on before, the men carrying the Targaryen banners stopped. The one in brown wool dismounted and let the others hold his horse while he walked with Rhaegar. They spoke in hushed tones. The stranger did not remove his hood, but there was no need. Rhaegar recognized Varys the eunuch. His face was smooth and boyish, although he had no hair on his head at all. He spoke with the air of one who possessed some great wisdom, and was young enough to be slightly arrogant about it.

"The time has come," Rhaegar said.

"I feared as much, my Lord. I did not think you would have called us here personally for anything else." Varys's look was somber, but focused.

"You can get them all out?" Rhaegar asked. "Even Elia and the children?"

"Your brother is outside of the city and will have joined up with your newborn sister on Dragonstone by now," Varys responded. "Stannis Baratheon is approaching to try to take the island and the children, but they will be across the sea long before he arrives. He will not know that, though, and will focus his main siege there."

"Savages." Rhaegar shook his head. "How can they go after children like that?"

"Robert Baratheon is a savage and Tywin Lannister is a snake, but your father is a dragon. We all have our good and our bad, wouldn't you say, Your Grace?" Rhaegar looked at him. It pained him to be having this conversation. Varys continued. "Getting Elia and the children out will be more difficult, however. The boy is a babe, and as all babes look much alike, we think we can slip him out the gate without much attention. Elia and the girl, however…" Varys paused. Rhaegar could sense the sadness in his voice, but he continued. "We are doing our best to find suitable doubles that can stand in for Elia and the child. We do think that we will find someone, provided that we still have some time before this war ends up in King's Landing."

Rhaegar lowered his eyes and gave his head a small shake. "It won't be long at all, I fear. Varys, please get my wife and children out of King's Landing before it is too late. Please see them, and my brother and sister, safely out of Westeros until this is all over. I cannot bare to lose any more innocent lives because of all this." Rhaegar turned away from Varys, putting his hand on his forehead. "This is no way for people to live…" he muttered, more to himself than to Varys.

"My Lord?" Varys interrupted his thoughts.

Rhaegar picked his head and turned back around. "Nothing. Nevermind. Thank you, Varys. You've been a true friend to me and to my wife and children."

"My Lord, I am a true friend to those who are true friends to the realm. No more, no less. All I ask is that you remember that, as things run their course." He paused, looking directly into Rhaegar's eyes. "My Lord, what of your other… umm… well… I dare say…"

"You dare not say," Rhaegar responded, firmly. "This fight is not about love, this fight is about politics and money. You would do well to remember that, Varys."

Varys did not respond immediately, but held Rhaegar's gaze. "As you say, my Lord." His voice sounded terribly sad. Rhaegar was about to inquire about it when Varys said, "My Lord, I must needs ask your leave of me, to attend to these matters immediately. I promise you, your son and heir will live to see the day beyond this war."

"Thank you, Lord Varys. Please, make haste and may the Gods be with you." Rhaegar noticed that Varys would not look into his eyes as they bid their farewells. He assumed it was nothing that need concern him. He turned and made his way back to the war council to prepare for the battle with Lord Robert.


	5. The Eunuch

**The Eunuch**

Varys made his way back to the men waiting for him by the Green Fork. They bid formal farewells and then guided their horses swiftly back to the Kingsroad. Here, the men split off. Six men, including the one carrying the Targaryen banner, headed south down the Kingsroad. Varys, still holding his little bird banner, and one other, shrouded in a gold cloak, led their horses east.

About three leagues from where they split off from the rest, there was a narrow crossing in a creek that split off from the river. They crossed it and doubled back for about half a league. The path along this side of the river curved upward toward a hall. Here there was another banner. This one contained a hand, closed but for the index finger, which was lightly curled and shaped into a pointing pose.

Varys dismounted and reached up to the banner, carefully untying and removing it from the branch where it hung. He rolled it and put it in a sack strapped to his horse.

"What's this for, Varys?" his companion asked.

"This banner means the end for the Targaryens, I'm afraid." Varys finished packing the banner and folded the straps down over it. "If there was a chance of making peace with Rhaegar, I would have added my banner to this one. Then, our friends would have come along and seen both banners and known that Rhaegar was willing to give Lyanna back to Robert. The war would have been over within a fortnight, and we could have all gone back to being merry and prosperous."

His companion looked puzzled. "Our friends? Varys what are you…?" He paused in mid-sentence as the head of an arrow sprouted from his throat. There was only a gurgling noise and lots of blood where just moments ago words had flowed from.

Varys moved his horse away from his companion, who was now laying on the ground, kicking his leg violently. After a few kicks, he stopped moving. "Excellent timing, my dear ser, as always." Varys said in the direction the arrow had come from.

Two figures emerged from the shadows. Varys recognized the dark brown hair and features of Ned Stark and the lighter hair of Howland Reed. Ned spoke. "Of course we're here. This is my sister we're talking about. What did Rhaegar say exactly?"

"He would not speak of Lyanna. He claims she is not a part of all of this. The last time he spoke of her was when he claimed that he and Lyanna had been secret lovers for years and that she had come with him willingly. He declares that the matter has nothing to do with Robert, and that your father is free to take it up with him in King's Landing via a formal complaint but that for now she is a guest under Rhaegar's protection."

Ned looked at him, shaking his head. "Lies! Lyanna would have told me of this. Our father did not hate Targaryens as much as people say. She knew that." He turned his back and took a few steps in the other direction as he spoke, but then turned and came back to them. "My sister is not a guest of Rhaegar. She is a prisoner. So this is what it's going to come to, is it?"

Varys looked at him. He understood much more than he let on. He knew that the Starks and the Targaryens had never gotten along well, and that Robert Baratheon was in love with Ned's sister Lyanna Stark. If there was truth to Rhaegar's story, it was a truth that many did not want to hear. These men would go to war to silence that truth, he feared. "I'm afraid so, Lord Stark," Varys responded. "I've served the Targaryens for many years. Aerys is mad, and cruel, and stupid. Rhaegar is a beautiful soul, capable of great understanding, but his passions have gone unchecked all his life. He loves Lyanna, I truly believe that. He would do anything for her and he would treat her wonderfully, I have no doubt of that. But he will not give her up. He fears that you will take her from him and not give her a chance to decide for herself who she wants to be with. He will not give her back to you. And he knows that you will not let him live unless he gives her back to you."

Varys sensed the anger rising in Ned. "Rhaegar is a fool. The Targaryens have been taking what they want from Westeros for almost three hundred years. He kidnapped my sister and kept her locked up, doing only the Gods know what to her. He thinks that if he keeps her long enough he can make her love him and forget about Robert. He needs to understand that no man can do that to another man. Rhaegar is a monster and monsters must die." The anger had escalated into fury as he spoke.

Varys nodded his head. "I understand your perspective, my Lord. I had no misgivings that it would be any other way."

Ned nodded at him and looked away. Varys knew this was the time for him to take his leave. He had to get to Duskendale. He took his leave and made his way, by himself, along the river. From time to time he passed one of his little birds. He acknowledged them by not looking at them, as was their understanding. If there was any danger along this road, his birds would let him know. Meanwhile, Varys kept his mind on what needed to be done. _Lots and lots to prepare for,_ he thought to himself, as he made his way toward the sea, and toward a future of uncertainty and peril.


	6. The Young Viper

**The Young Viper**

Oberyn knew they had lost. The city was being sacked. His brother was dead. And now his sister… _Oh sweet sister… and the children…_ He was numb. He'd had no time at all to wrap his mind around any of this when he heard the pounding on the door.

"Oberyn Martell. Open the door. You are under arrest for crimes against the realm, for your loyalty to the traitor Aerys. As long as you swear fealty to King Robert and Lord Tywin, you will not be harmed. The king has assured me." He thought he recognized Jon Umber's voice. A man whose word could be trusted, he knew. _But what will they ask of me in return for my life?_

He knew what he had to do. He'd made the plans months ago. His foresight had been strong enough to do that but not strong enough to save his family. He checked to make sure his sword and dagger were secure, then grabbed his oaken wardrobe and threw it on the floor. Stuffed neatly inside a niche carved into the back of the wardrobe was a small sack, some rope, leather gloves and a small leather strap. In the sack was a sealed flagon of wine and another of water, some salt pork and dried citrus fruits, a white piece of cloth and a smaller sack with five gold dragons, fifty silvers and several coppers. He threw it around his back and grabbed the gloves, pulling them on quickly before grabbing the rope and the leather piece. He walked toward the window as he heard the axe begin to crash on his door. _Crochook! Kerchunk!_ They had stopped talking and started smashing.

As calmly as if he were taking a stroll through the Water Gardens, Oberyn walked to the window and looked out. Everything was still in place as he'd planned. The old wooden prayer house across the way that predated the Great Sept of Baelor still required supporting ropes from the adjoining buildings to keep it upright. They were meant to be a temporary solution to the leaning that the building had begun to do, to appease those who argued that it could not be torn down because it had been a sacred place of ritual for Baelor the Blessed. Several of the ropes ran from the Red Keep down to the prayer house to prevent it from falling in the opposite direction, and others secured it on the opposite side to the armory beyond to prevent it from falling back the other way. He had just a moment to wonder if he should have come up with a better plan when the axe came crashing down again. _Crochook!_

 _Too late,_ flashed through his mind. He took the rope in hand and looked up to the ropes overhead that ran from the Red Keep over to the prayer house building. Deftly, he threw one end of his rope up and out, trying to swing it up and over the rope above. He missed, but he was pulling it back in as quickly as it fell, ready to try again. _Kerchu-OOONK!_ They had broken through one pane of the door but it was still secured with a strong lock that would hold out at least a few more swings. Oberyn had plenty of time. He reared back a little harder this time and heaved the rope again. This time his throw landed true. It went up and over and landed right back into his hand again. Holding both ends of the rope together, he hopped up on the windowsill as her heard a second pane give out. _Kerchu-OOONK!_

He glanced over quickly and saw one of the knights through the hole in the door. He didn't look familiar to Oberyn. Not that it mattered. He didn't trust any men who turned against their born king. He turned back to the window and, making sure one last time that the two ends of rope were securely in hand, jumped as far and as high as he could. As he had expected, his rope slipped only slightly on the rope above, which was angled down toward the prayer house, as he swung out away from the window. He pulled himself up until he got his hands on the supporting rope above, then fumbled into the sack over his shoulder and retrieved the strip of his leather. This he slid over the rope above his head and grabbed it with both hands, letting the angle of the rope and the smoothness of the leather carry him away from the Red Keep toward the prayer house. He slid nice and smoothly down to the crippled building, slipping the leather piece off the rope and clutching it in one hand as he crashed forcefully through the wall of the highest floor, landing with a crash on the damp, dusty floor.

Slightly dazed but not hurt, he picked himself up and looked behind him, past the thirty feet wide and twenty feet high of space that he'd created between himself and his former bedchambers. He did not see Robert's knights looking down on him from the window yet. Maybe he could get away from their view before they made it through the door and to the window to see which way he went. Maybe he could slip away unnoticed.

Still clutching the leather strip, he quickly checked that his sword, dagger and supplies remained secure, then walked back out the hole he had created in the wall and out onto the ledge. He crept delicately around the building ledge to the opposite side where more supporting ropes extended down to the armory below. As he moved, he felt the wood groan beneath his feet slightly. He hadn't expected the building so be quite so fragile. _Forward is the only way forward,_ he thought to himself.

When he made it to the other side of the building, he once again slipped the strip of leather around the rope and hopped down, letting the angle of the rope accelerate him quickly toward the armory and the ground below. He slid faster than he'd expected. By the time he was near to crashing into the stone midwall of the armory, he was going about as fast as a horse at full speed. At the last moment, he let go of the leather strip and grabbed hold of the rope itself, pulling himself to a stop. However, the sudden weight that he put on the rope above, the one securing the prayer house to the armory to prevent it from falling backward into the Red Keep, was too much for the old decrepit wooden structure. He could feel it give even as he could feel his own momentum slow. It was a strange sensation, like the give after a burst of shoulder strength begins to get an oxcart moving down a slope. This was no oxcart, however. This was six stories of old oak and pine and weirwood falling right on top of him.

Without thinking, he grabbed the trestle of the stone wall of the armory and swung himself the last twelve feet to the ground and ran toward the King's Gate. Out of the way of the falling rubble, he looked up and back at his window, but he couldn't see past the giant pile of wood and stone that now filled the yard. No one on the ground seemed to be looking in his direction either, and he managed to get around the corner and into an alley. The Mud Gate was nearby. He walked quickly toward it, ignoring the two guards. They paid him no mind. They were trying to get some answers about the crash they'd all just heard. He walked quickly through the Mud Gate on foot.

Once outside the gate, he doubled back along the river toward the pier where he had last seen Dornish ships preparing to leave the city with great haste. He walked quickly with his head down. Several boats were being loaded frantically with crates of all sizes and shapes, and people. A cluster of ships and galleys on the far side showed the golden sun of Dorne. He found a medium sized galley that seemed ready to depart and slipped quietly on board, sinking into a crevice just barely his size. He avoided being seen. He would gladly explain himself to the captain as soon as they were away from the city. He knew any Dornishman would happily accept the prince as his fare and keep his presence secret. _Such is the loyalty of the Dornish. If only everyone could be more like us,_ he thought to himself.

A short time later, he heard the call to release anchor and he felt the boat push off and begin moving toward the sea, away from the city. He thought of his brother Lewyn on the Trident. The stories said that he'd been cast down trying to protect the Dragon Prince. He bowed his head and gave a brief prayer to the Warrior and one for the Mother for his brother. _There is great honor in dying to protect your king,_ he thought to himself.

Then he thought of Elia, and he found himself struck by grief and anger. He couldn't help but speak out loud: "I am sorry that I failed you, my sweet sister. I thought that I was strong but I see now how weak I was. I vow that I will never again be so blind to the evils in the hearts of men. One day, I will come back here, and I swear that when that day comes you and your children will be avenged." A tear crept slowly from his eye and down his cheek as he closed his eyes. He did not wipe it away. That tear would stay imprinted on his soul for the rest of his days. _Only the blood of Lannisters and Baratheons will wipe this tear away_ , he said to himself, as the boat drifted smoothly out to sea.


	7. Ser Barristan the Bold (2)

**Ser Barristan the Bold**

Ser Barristan stood facing the men and raised his sword to shoulder length as he yelled "Nock!" It had been years since he'd commanded an army, but he still knew the commands and motions. Not that it mattered. Even the most skilled captain would not be able to lead these men through this, he knew. Everything was falling to pieces right before his eyes. They had not even gotten past Harrenhal when Stark's men came down on them. Not all of them, he knew, but enough. He turned on one heel and faced the line of Stark's men in front of them as he lifted his sword straight above his head and yelled "Draw!" He could hear the strings being drawn as the men prepared to fire. "Loose!" he yelled as he swung his arm down in a quick arcing motion. A stream of arrows flew toward the line. Most of them landed just inside the front line. A few men fell and dropped to the ground. A couple more made quick shuddering movements and stopped coming forward but didn't fall. Most kept coming at them.

It was only then, as the front line of mounted knights was coming at them at full charge, that he noticed their own archers behind them. _Too far,_ he thought, but then wondered. The northerners were skilled at long distances, with longbows fashioned from strong oak and weirwood that were hard to come by in the southern regions. This was all going through his mind as their first round of arrows took flight. That was when he knew, with certainty, that he was wrong.

There was as much distance between Stark's archers and the front of Stark's line as there was between Selmy's own archers and Stark's mounts, yet most of Stark's arrows were still on their way up as they passed the Stark men. "Down! Cover!" Selmy yelled as he turned and ducked to make himself small and cover himself as best as possible. _Shooh-plink! Shooh-plink!_ The first row of arrows landed just short of them, with one exception. One arrow bounced harmlessly off the greatshield of a mounted knight. _Shooh-PLONK!_ Selmy could see puzzlement in the man's eyes through the slotted visor of his helm. His men paused for a moment, confused, and Selmy turned. All of Stark's men were coming at them, including the archers. _The next round will strike true,_ he realized.

They had to spread out or they would be torn down where they stood. "Flank!" he yelled, waving his arms up and away from him, indicating for some to go left and others to go right. Most of them understood and started moving. The next round of Stark's arrows landed right in the heart of their mounts. _Shooh-plink! Shooh-plink! Shooh-CHICK!_ One landed in the chest of a horse with a sickening noise. Both man and mount went crashing to the ground, the horse screaming and whinnying in pain. Selmy turned his horse toward them and scooped the man up without missing a step. He yelled again and waved his arms for them all to spread out, then turned his head toward the men coming at them. The front of the van was close. They'd be here in minutes. There would be one more round of arrows though.

He didn't intend to be in the way when the next round hit. He put his head down and dug his heels into the horse's side. The horse did not hesitate. They sprinted several feet directly away from the archers before loping around and running directly crosswise to them, trying to stay just out of reach of the next flight. They were coming now. _Shooh-plink! Shooh-CHICK!_ The man behind him on his horse lurched and made a gurgling noise and let go of Selmy's shoulder. Ser Barristan turned his head to see an arrow through the man's neck. _The Gods certainly must have had it out for this one,_ he thought. _Forgive me, good ser._ He swung his elbow around behind him and knocked the soldier off the mount. The horse immediately recovered the speed it had lost from the weight of the additional man and they made their way west along the southern edge of the Trident.

It was then, when he looked around him, that he realized he'd been wrong again. That soldier had not been unlucky. Ser Barristan had just been very lucky. Of all of the knights that he'd just ordered to scatter, hoping to avoid the onslaught of arrows, barely half were still ahorse and still riding alongside him. Behind them his knights on foot were receiving the first of Stark's chargers. Without mounts, it would have been pointless for them to run, so they had stood firm even as they had been run down. Selmy didn't have to watch long to know that they were being slaughtered where they stood.

He turned again and glanced over his right shoulder at the chargers that had turned to come at them, and then realized they had hit a trap of sorts. The angle that his own knights had taken crosswise to the oncoming Stark created difficult angles for them to fend off attacks, and perfect angles for Stark's men, behind and to their sides. It made it nearly impossible for them to get their swords or shields in between themselves and the oncoming brigade. Several more men were struck down.

Selmy knew he had to turn and face the onslaught or they would take him from behind just as easily as the others. _Now_! He wheeled his horse around as the first mounted knights were on him. His horse danced back and forth a couple times, parleying attacks as Stark men rode up hard on him. All he could do was hold up his sword as his horse did its best to avoid any direct head on impacts. He managed to deflect several attacks and even got his sword back up and caught one man on the neck and chin that sent a burst of red splattering like a watermelon exploding. The next one came, then the next one. Selmy parleyed as best he could. He was about to regroup and try to move toward the side of the oncoming column when his horse was hit head on by an oncoming destrier. There was a sickening _crunch_ as the horse's skulls crashed together and formed one big mass of red blood and white bone with two different shades of horse mane. He landed in the mud and, reacting without thinking, rolled out of the way of another oncoming destrier. He had to get to the side of this charge or he would have no chance.

He picked himself up and turned. One of Stark's knights near the edge of the column had slowed to hop around the mound of dead horse that had been his mount. This was his chance. The horse was just starting to gather speed as it passed him, and Selmy reached up with one hand and grabbed the horse's reins, pulling himself up and onto the horse's rear and wrapping his arm around the shoulders of the knight to right himself. He was fully up on the horse before the knight even noticed he was there. He used the last of the momentum that had carried him up onto the horse to pull the knight down to the left. The man hit the ground head first, and based on the way his body kept traveling downward when his head hit, Selmy was pretty sure his neck crumbled on impact. He grabbed the horn of the saddle and jerked himself up and into place on the horse, digging his heels and turning to again get to the side of the charge. The horse continued to pick up speed. When Selmy was reasonably out of the way of what remained of the charge, he tried to turn around and get his bearings again. All of a sudden his horse was hit with an arrow and he found himself crashing to the ground again.

This time that he hit the ground hurt significantly more than the first. His head was spinning but he picked himself up again, grabbed his sword and turned toward the charge again on foot. A mounted destrier hit him almost instantly, throwing him a hundred feet to a skidding stop in a large mulberry bush next to a grove of trees. There he lay. He knew immediately that his right arm and shoulder had shattered where the mount had hit him. The rest of his injury was not so obvious but became apparent when he tried to move. His other shoulder was certainly broken as well, and his hip possibly too, or his knee, maybe his thigh. He couldn't tell. He was starting to feel funny. He raised his bare hand – his glove was gone too, how did that happen – and touched his forehead. His hand was covered in blood. _Was that there before? Is that my blood?_

He tried to pick himself up but the pain in his shoulder was excruciating. Instead, he rolled onto his back. Above him, looking down at him was a white weirwood tree. He had become nestled in the bushes at the foot of the tree, mostly concealed by the mulberry bush's thick, scratchy branches and leaves. The weirwood was relatively small, only as big around as his waist. He looked at the face carved into it. It was staring right at him. He closed his eyes but he could still feel it looking down on him. _This is one of their gods,_ he thought to himself in a cloudy haze. _It will call out to them and tell them where I am. I will not be left alive. There's nothing I can do about it._ He felt certain of this. He looked again up at the weirwood tree. _Its eyes seem kind actually,_ he thought to himself.

That was the last thing he remembered thinking before he drifted off. At that moment, he was certain he would never wake again.


	8. The Greatjon

**The Greatjon**

Jon Umber had not set his flagon of wine down all night. He felt like he was watching a mummer's farce. He was supposed to feel great, all their dreams had been achieved and the kingdom was at peace. There was a new king on the Iron Throne, and a beautiful new queen by his side. He glanced over at Cersei Lannister. He couldn't help but notice that he never seemed to see the woman without seeing her father nearby. It was as if there was no Cersei without Tywin, and she seemed to complete this picture with everything that she did. Everyone said that it was even worse with Cersei and Ser Jaime, but he had wisely left the city and fled to Casterly Rock within days of killing Aerys. The truth was that without him there was likely no way that anyone could have beaten the Mad King, but it had taken almost a fortnight before any man dared to acknowledge that Ser Jaime had done what no man before had been able to do.

The shame did not come from the deed itself, Jon agreed, but because it came from a man wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Plus, the way Ned told it, he had found Ser Jaime sitting idly on the Iron Throne with Aerys's blood still dripping from the edge of his sword. He knew that it was not as if Ser Jaime meant to try to take the Iron Throne for himself. Still, given Ser Jaime's role in the final moments of the revolution that had just occurred, the way he'd acted in the moments afterward seemed wrong. It was as if the Iron Throne meant no more to him than a bench to warm his arse, rather than the symbol of a once great and thriving kingdom of people. _It will be great again_ , he thought to himself.

He turned his gaze to Ned Stark, his new liege lord. Ned had just become the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but there was no joy in him, Jon knew. _Of course not,_ Jon thought to himself _. Only_ _a callous man would be excited already about his new title._ He knew that Ned would gladly trade his new station in life for his father and brother back. A proud smile found its way to Jon's eyes when he thought of that, although it never betrayed the firm solid expression on his face. He knew little of the new king Robert, but he knew the Starks well, and had known them for all his life. His father had been proud to fly the direwolf banner of Rickard Stark, and he will be proud to fly the direwolf of the new Stark lord. And if the Starks were proud to fly the crowned stag of House Baratheon, then Jon Umber would be happy to do the same as well. _A northman's loyalties run deep and true,_ his father had always said to him. _Ned would not give his out lightly._

Ned looked up at him and met his gaze. A meaningful glance passed between them. He understood Ned's pain. _All northmen understand our pain,_ he thought to himself, _and they always will. The North will remember._

He decided he needed to get some fresh air. He grabbed his flagon and excused himself as a polite northman will when other drunken northern lords are the company. _Atta boy, men. Gotta drain the weirwood tree. Don't kill no one while I'm gone, alright? Wouldn't want to miss the fun. Har!_ He walked toward the back terrace of the Great Hall of the Red Keep, watching the looks and stares he got as he made his way past the northern and southern lords. Most were foreign to him although they seemed to recognize him to some extent because many of them glanced his way and nodded as he walked. Most had a similar kind of grief in their eyes that he could understand. They had lost people to the evil whims of the Mad King. Others had a bit of malice in their eyes but they tended to look away quickly. _Turncloaks,_ he knew. Those that had supported Aerys until the end, mostly. _They look away because they have lost,_ he knew.

One of the ones that looked at him with scorn did not look away quickly, but held his gaze for several seconds. It was a strange look, and borderline insubordinate, Jon thought. He was about to look away and let it go when the man stole another quick casual glance back in his direction. He was a large man with impossibly dark skin, one of the Quarthi merchants seated in a table of honor at the wedding feast. He looked different from the others at that table, donning a robe of simple brown wool where they were clad in fine silver robes trimmed with gold. They all bore similarly shining, bejeweled trinkets around their wrists, including this one. This one had skin that far darker than the others though, almost black. _It almost looks like coal rubbed onto the man's skin,_ Jon thought, then dismissed it as simple paranoia. The way he'd looked at Jon aroused his suspicion, but he had come to expect that from those foreigners. Everything they did seemed strange to him. He kept his gaze fixed on the man's face as he walked but the man did not turn his way again. He let it go but decided to keep his guard up as he walked through the great back doors of the hall and out onto the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay and the sea beyond.

As he stood watching the sea he thought back on all that had happened. The Mad King's gradual descent into madness, the questionable new people he'd invited into his council despite objections from everyone around him, Lyanna Stark, Robert's declaration, the death of Rhaegar, followed shortly after by the death of Aerys, Robert's coronation and then marriage. It all seemed so long ago now, and yet it been just two turns of the moon since Robert sat the Iron Throne for the first time. Things had begun to calm down already and were expected to continue to get better. Robert sat the Iron Throne, Jon Arryn was the King's Hand, and Tywin Lannister had his own place secured in the king's council as father of the Queen, which was necessary although far from ideal.

He thought back to the eyes of the man in the hall as he'd walked out. There was something familiar about those eyes, but he didn't know why. _He must have been someone who was here with Aerys before. But who? Did it matter?_ There were hundreds of men in the hall right now who had supported and thrived under the Mad King, but all feasted and toasted the new one. All would thrive under the new king just as before, except those who continued to fight against Robert even now.

A noise behind him pulled him from his thoughts, and he stepped sideways quickly and looked back, dropping his hand to the hilt of his dagger. It was only Ned, walking toward him. Their eyes met, and they nodded to each other as he joined him on the terrace. Jon offered him the flagon of wine. Ned took it willingly and took a large gulp. _A northman's gulp,_ Jon thought to himself, then smiled a bit. He had come to realize that he separated everyone into northmen and southernmen, and he mostly saw the bad sides of the southerners and the good sides of the northerners. He would be happy to get out of here, he knew, but he was also thankful that he and Ned and the other bannermen were here to help Jon Arryn and King Robert put the realm back together after all this. He was glad to have Jon Arryn on their side. _He's not quite a northman, not quite a southernman,_ Jon mused. _Perhaps therein lies the strength of his character. He can see how silly we all can be from time to time, northmen and southernmen alike._

"Well, it's over," Ned said to him as he handed the flagon back to him. "Why do I still feel like things are about to fall apart at any minute?"

Jon Umber didn't answer, just shook his head. He knew the loss of his father and brother was still fresh in Ned's mind, and it would be another fortnight before he and his men recovered enough to set out to try to save his sister. He couldn't imagine what such a thing would do to a man. Still, Ned was a Stark, proud as all Starks are, through and through. Jon Umber had no doubt that Ned would rise and fulfill his duty to the North, and the future of the North would be in good hands. He was about to say as much when Ned spoke again instead.

"When I was a kid, I fantasized about being Lord of Winterfell someday." He reached his hand out for the flagon, and Jon handed it to him. Ned took another big swig. "I used to wish that Brandon would take the black, for some reason." Ned looked over at Jon. He was puffy around the eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks. It was as likely true as not, Jon knew. Ned handed the flagon back to him. "I never thought it would happen like this, never wanted it like this…" his voice trailed off and he looked away, out toward the bay. Jon couldn't help sympathize for the man so he did the best he knew how to in this situation: he offered the flagon back to Ned before he himself had a chance to take a swig. Ned accepted it.

They were standing there, watching a lone boat traveling across the bay, when a noise behind them made Jon look back. _Sssshhhhhhhh…_ It was the sound of a blade sliding from a scabbard. Jon turned to see a large figure draped and hooded in brown wool stalking swiftly toward Ned. It was the man with the coal-black skin. Ned's back was turned. He was still looking out at the bay, flagon in hand, lost in thought. The dagger was small, its blade was only about four inches, but it didn't need to be large to deal a fatal blow directly into the shoulder blades of Ned Stark, where it appeared to be aimed.

"Aye!" Jon Umber leapt into action at once, barreling his shoulder into the man's chest on his right side. The knife went flying from his hands. The figure was knocked off balance but he didn't fall down. His hood fell, and Umber looked into the eyes of Kahaerys, the dead king's demonic henchman.

"Stark, you filth!" Kahaerys spoke then. He recovered his balance and took a step back away from them and let the cloak fall from his shoulders. There was no mistaking the half Dothraki, half Quarthi monstrosity that stood before them. The man stood six feet and a half again, and was more muscle than man. To any other than Jon Umber, who stood nearly seven feet tall, the figure would have been a giant. The olive skin that covered his enormous shoulders and arms glistened in the moonlight. A leather belt held up black breeches. Kahaerys reached for another, larger dagger tucked into his belt. Ned had turned around by then, but he was clearly too much in shock and still struck in his grief to fully understand what was happening. The Targaryen was coming toward him again, the dagger now firmly in his left hand, away from the side Jon Umber was on.

Jon grabbed Ned by the shoulders and did something he never thought he would do to his liege lord – he swung him and tossed him several feet across the terrace. Kahaerys turned to Jon. His red-purple eyes were a fury that sent a chill through Jon's spine but he stood his ground between the two, his own dagger firmly in hand at the ready, preparing for the Dothraki's next attack.

The Targaryen swung the knife at Jon, nearly clipping his cheek. Keeping himself between Ned and the big man, Jon swung his own dagger. It took a chunk out of Kahaerys's forearm, but he did not drop the knife. The big man let out a loud _hiss_ as blood came oozing down his arm, hitting the ground in little splatters. The Targaryen swung again, but Jon was ready. He caught the big man's arm at the elbow and slapped the man's forearm toward his face, forcing the arm into a curling motion. The knife in the Dothraki's arms snapped sharply upward but caught him on the shoulder instead. The big man lurched backward, and Jon took a step forward, his own knife held up to his face, ready to take the Targaryen down. He kicked with his foot as the Dothraki stepped sideways, catching the man in the stomach. "Ooof," he groaned as he bounced backward. Jon looked back. Ned was now on his feet.

"Guards!" Ned yelled and pointed to the big man, who was now coming at them again. "Seize him!" Jon knew there would be guards nearby, but they wouldn't be here in time. Ned had pulled his own dagger and was trying to get in position to confront the man, but Jon stepped in front of his new liege lord. The Dothraki monstrosity was fast. As Jon stepped to his right to get in front of Ned, the Dothraki tossed the blade back and forth from left hand to right and back from right to left. Then he swung it around with his left arm, catching Jon in the lower back, taking a slice of skin off right above his kidneys. With the adrenaline Jon barely felt it, and as Kahaerys's dagger was low, Jon swing his dagger high. It landed firmly in the right eye of the big man. Jon heard the dagger fall from the fingers of the lifeless body. Just like that, it was over.

Two of Ned's men were running up now, spears in hand. There was nothing more to do though.

"Who was that?" one of the guards asked when he'd had a chance to get a grasp on what had just happened.

"That was the last of the Targaryens," Ned said. "Supposedly." He gave Jon a look that betrayed something slightly more than what was being said. The guards didn't notice but Jon knew what that look meant. There were two Targaryens that survived the rebellion, but they were far away from here and Jon hoped that they'd never hear from them again.

"Who?" Jory Cassel, a young squire from Winterfell who had recently been trusted with guard duties after having acted valiantly during the rebellion, asked.

"His name was Kahaerys. He showed up about eighteen moons ago and claimed to be a Targaryen. He came from across the Narrow Sea, practically from the shadow lands. His mother was Dothraki and his father was some kind of Quarthi prince. He was the Targaryen's most loyal servant right at the end, when Aerys had destroyed the loyalty of all the good people around him. The man lived for Aerys. It's not surprising he would make an effort to come after us even after Aerys is dead."

"He was sitting with the Quarthi merchants in the hall," Jon looked up at Jory. "What do they have to say about this?"

"My lord," Jory looked solemn. "The Quarthi are gone. I had just noticed that when I heard you call out." His eyes were wide. Jon and Ned looked at each other.

"It's not surprising," Ned said. "I think this is the world that Robert will be living in from now on." He and Jon exchanged a meaningful look.

"I, for one, will be happy to get back to Last Hearth," Jon said.

"Aye, I'm with ya there, Jon. Happy to be rid of this place." Ned paused as he looked at his friend, a sparkle in his eyes. Then he said, "You know, I don't think that name quite does you justice. From here on forward, Jon Umber shall be appropriately known as Greatjon. Greatjon Umber! _The_ Greatjon, even! That's a much more fitting name for you. The man who put down the very last of the Targaryens!" Ned put his arm around Jon's shoulders.

As Jory and a few other men dealt with the dead body that was now gathering flies and onlookers, Ned and Jon handed the flagon back and forth to each other and shot the breeze for a while longer. When the body and the others had made their way off the terrace, Jon Umber asked his friend something. "Ned," he said. "Why did you tell them that they were the last of the Targaryens? There's at least two trueborn Targaryens left and possibly one…"

Ned's eyes went wide and he raised a hand to stop Jon Umber from finishing his sentence. "There are two Targaryens, true," Ned responded. "We will do our best not to speak of them, for fear that they may be targeted as threats to Robert's rule." Ned gave Jon another, much deeper and more concerned look. "As for my sister… if there is a bastard child of Rhaegar's, it will not live. My sister will not want it, I am certain, so there will be no choice to make, and nothing to speak of."

Jon could hear the pain in Ned's voice, speaking of these things. He hoped that Ned was right. A bastard child of Rhaegar Targaryen would be more of a threat to King Robert than even the two of Aerys's children that had fled to the east. A surviving child of Rhaegar would be a child of the first-born heir to the Iron Throne. He nodded his agreement, but said nothing.

They talked for a while longer, out on the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay and then back inside again with the other men, celebrating the newfound peace and prosperity that the realm was ripe to enjoy now that Aerys was gone. They shared big swigs of good wine and big laughs and toasted their new ruler, a man of strength and honor rather than fire and trickery. Greatjon Umber hoped he'd be able to drink to that for a long time.


	9. Ser Barristan the Bold (3)

**Ser Barristan the Bold**

When Ser Barristan Selmy awoke, he immediately felt pain but saw nothing. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and he realized he was in a litter. There were dark drapes drawn, and he was alone. He tried to move his arms, but found there was excruciating pain when he did.

"Don't try to move, ser, you'll find that any such will be quite fruitless, as well as quite painful. Both of your shoulders have been dislocated and your right arm is broken in two places. You're quite lucky to be alive, ser." A voice came from the blackness near him.

Ser Barristan looked as the man slowly appeared in front of him as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the litter. He was a small, wiry man, slight of build but sharp of features. His light hair and spiked, pointy wisp of chin beard were the color of dark sand. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Ser Barristan. Selmy responded. "I suppose I have you to thank for this, then, Lord…?" He looked at the man, questioningly.

"Ser Barristan, my name is not all that important to be perfectly honest. I am but a humble servant of the realm. What's more important is what I want, for you, for me, for the good of all the realm. I want you to re-join the Kingsguard as the new King Robert's trusted servant."

"King… Robert…?" Selmy looked at the man. "Aerys? Rhaegar?!"

"Quite dead, I'm afraid, all of them." The man with the sandy-colored spiked beard looked at him. "We have a new king in the realm. Long live King Robert." The man looked at Selmy with a slight mocking smile. "And therein lies the problem for you, I'm afraid, ser. You are most certainly not in the favor of the new king. I'm sure you know that?"

"So I'm a prisoner then." It was more a statement than a question.

"No, no, not quite that either." The man narrowed his eyes on Selmy again and pinched his spiked beard a couple of times with two fingers. "Ser Barristan, let me just put it this way. I am someone who cares deeply about the future of the realm, and I think that you are a man who needs to be a part of this new realm. We need knights who possess a strong foundation of honor. Knights who stand for what is right and good, rather than who is willing to pay them the most." He was still looking at him. "When I bring you back to King's Landing, King Robert will most certainly ask you to take the black or face execution. However, I intend to tell him that I was witness to you pledging your fealty to him several moons ago and that you were injured while fighting for his side rather than for Rhaegar. King Robert knows you are a man of honor, and that such a decision would not come easily for you. He will not press you too much. He will probably not even force you to speak any lies yourself. I have no problems doing that for you, happily. I consider it a gift of mine, you see." The little man was twisting his chin beard almost incessantly now. I happen to know that our new King Robert has a great respect for you, and I do not doubt he will be happy to know that you swore your fealty to him long before Aerys perished, and that you were happy to put the Mad King and his family behind you. You can continue to serve the realm and, now that you shan't be receiving commands from a madman, you can resume the life of honor that you've always wanted to live, Ser Barristan."

Ser Barristan Selmy looked at this stranger. He was an odd man, young, but wise. He couldn't have been more than eighteen, but he spoke as if he had all the wisdom of an accomplished grand maester. Finally, Ser Barristan asked the only question he needed to ask. "And what would you have of me, my Lord?"

"Oh, I'm no lord," the stranger responded. "Not yet. I am but a lowly servant of the realm, but I have some personal connections to the new king that I hope to be able to profit from. When I do, I'll begin making some interesting long term arrangements, and I'll need good, honorable men who will stay true to what is right and what is best for the realm no matter what happens in the coming years."

Ser Barristan looked at him. There was nothing to say. This man gave him a bad feeling, but it was hard to see that he had any choice in the matter. Besides, this still felt like a better choice than the ones he'd been making lately following King Aerys.

Selmy was about to ask the man's name again when he spoke. "By the way, Ser Barristan Selmy, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Petyr Baelish. I am a friend of the Tullys of Riverrun, occasional servant of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, soon to be a friend of the Starks of Winterfell, and by extension soon to be great friend and servant to King Robert Baratheon. You may call me Littlefinger, however. I like that name. It presumes little, which leaves room for many surprises, don't you agree? There is no man more dangerous than the one you underestimate and don't see coming." He let out a slight smile, ripe with condescension and mockery.

Selmy did not reply to this, only asked again, "What would you have of me then?"

The mocking smile lingered on his face as he responded. "Ser Barristan, I ask nothing of you but what any other noble lord would ask of you, to serve the realm in the best way that you can, by staying noble and true. I happen to believe that that, in itself, is all I need to best serve my own interests."

"And what are those interests?" Ser Barristan knew he had finally found the right question.

"That, my friend, is a question that none but me need know the answer to. I thank you for respecting that." Littlefinger looked at him with that same mocking smile and a sparkle in his eyes. "Now, might I suggest that you get some rest. It's a long ride to King's Landing and it might help the new king accept you into his graces if you didn't look half a corpse. Rest up, Ser Barristan Selmy, it's going to be an interesting time in the Seven Kingdoms, I do believe." They rode on together in silence. Ser Barristan had seen and heard enough, and he was going to need his strength for what was to come.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The rider arrived long after dusk, when Illyrio Mopatis was almost ready to turn in for the night. He'd been expecting him. It had been three moons since the mad king had perished. The Targaryen children had been under his watch this whole time. Things had gone well, with the exception that the older of the two, Viserys, was a nightmare to supervise. No more than six or seven, the boy was a spoiled brat already. When he wasn't demanding to go home, he was lighting tapestries on fire or throwing pigeon pie across the dining hall or pinching his newborn sister until she cried. _If this is what a Targaryen is like,_ he thought to himself, _it's a good thing we acted when we did._

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the voice of one of his serving girls, announcing the rider from the Iron Bank of Braavos. He told the girl to let the man in, which she did.

The man spoke no words but walked directly to Illyrio and placed a rolled, sealed hempen parchment in his hand. Illyrio took it from him and examined it. It was sealed from the Iron Bank of Braavos. Looking up to the man and offering an expression as if to ask "Is there anything more you have for me?" the man bowed his head and departed quickly and silently. Illyrio suspected the man had no tongue. It was common for the Iron Bank to send messages with men who could not speak or write. Such made a messenger more reliable, apparently.

Taking a seat at his writing desk and snatching up his letter opening knife, he carefully sliced the seal and opened the parchment. It was from Chancellor Malm, as he'd expected.

 _Dragon father and son perished. Young dragon's wife and children dead as well. No plans for the babes. Keep them safe. Move them from house to house as needed. Enjoy the fruits of your efforts. Keep watch for word of a new plan, eventually._ There was a space between this last line and the next.

The last line of the letter had just one simple sentence, but the meaning of it was so disturbing to Illyrio that he almost dropped the paper from his hand. It said: _Candles still burning as before._ When Illyrio read the words, a chill went through his spine _._

Quietly, solemnly, he walked over to his brazier and tossed the parchment into the fire, watching it burn to an unrecognizable black crisp. Then he walked to his door and, for the first time in years, locked the dead bolt at the top of the door. He went into his bedroom and lay down, drawing the shades around him. He knew he would not sleep, not now, but he had to rest. _This is only the beginning,_ he realized to himself as he lay there. _I can't even imagine what the end will look like._

 **The End**


End file.
